Hundred-Faced Jean & the Brass-Hearted Inspector
by drcalvin
Summary: Enter to the world of clockwork and dark secrets; where men of brass walk alongside men of flesh, and none but God knows which heart is filled with true humanity. In this tale our hero arrives in Montreuil-sous-Mer, becomes the Grand Ingeniare, and earns the love of all men and women – with the exception of one cold-eyed Inspector. (STEAMPUNK DYSTOPIA, Finished)


**Hundred-Faced Jean & the Brass-Hearted Inspector **

Thank you to spiderfire and smokefall for wonderful beta reading! All remaining errors are mine.

As the playlist to this fic, I have mostly used these a href=" watch?v=pbfWz-8dT8w&feature=share&list=RD02qsRh83BXvOE"steampunky songs/a

Take a seat, kind reader, and pull the chair closer. The tale we wish to tell today follows a familiar name, though this part of his path is rarely mentioned by most storytellers. Please, do not take it as a critique. To our fellows in the yarn-spinning craft, we leave with a warm hand the telling of the thrilling (if ultimately failed) attempted escape from that hellish pit and the heart-warming rendition of our hero saving a human child by carrying him from the barricades in the Floating City, through the maze of waterways and back to life.

But let us begin, first, by reminding you of how this man, at that time of his life known as Grand Ingeniare Madeleine, was seen in the town given into his charge. Though the highest levels still rose above sea level, it was already known as Montreuil-sous-Mer in those days. Among those slowly drowning barracks and towers, Ingeniare Madeleine was considered a blessing by all citizens.

The Ingeniare was a strongly built man with a great head of bushy grey hair and a thick beard which was, if one could allow oneself a moment of critique, not always as well-combed as befitted a man of his station. Though always properly attired, his clothes were slightly out of style. The collar of the mustard-yellow coat he favoured stood far too high, and the sleeves on all his shirts hung too far down on his hands, as had been the fashion in the turbulent days before the Great Revolution. When asked about it, the Ingeniare only joked that he was an old man, so let him wear old clothes; besides it helped hide the oil-stains from his factory work.

Since the years of flooding, Montreuil-sous-Mer had deteriorated from a peaceful hamlet to a wreck of a town, gasping ever more desperately for air, work and bread. Its' last factories were failing and the farms were dying. The citizens grew more hungry and embittered with each passing day, while around them the sea slowly swallowed everything from fields to church towers. None had the money to install power-wheels or air-pipes to even attempt to combat the hungry water.

When one day a vagrant entered the remains of the town, nobody looked twice at him. Only the constabulary made a mental note to review his papers before the dark fell. That very afternoon, however, there was a an event which changed the fate of Montreuil-sous-Mer quite drastically, and that of the vagrant even more: an acid flood of truly deadly proportions swept through the town. It was one of the great galvanic basins, untended for too many years, which had finally sprung a leak. Now a murderous wave swept away three workers' barracks – leaving two little children climbing to each other on a structure slowly toppling into the acid. While all others fled or stood exclaiming in horror, this man used his prodigious strength to intervene.

The vagrant swung himself up on a chain hanging from a large crane, took the children from their dissolving perch and put them on his back. He then climbed to safety with his precious load. When he put them into the grateful arms of their weeping mother, there went a great cheering and rejoicing through the crowd.

This vagrant – whom, as you are certain to know, dear readers, would introduce himself as Madeleine – was hailed as a hero by the entire town and so none bothered to ask for his identification card. When later Madeleine became the owner of the re-opened factory, and was named Ingeniare by the Steam Emperor himself, all who had been there spoke of this moment as a good omen.

As the years passed, only one man remained unwilling to partake of this flow of well-wishes and joy directed at Ingeniare Madeleine. It was a man of unusual height, his dark visage illuminated only by the artificial glow-bulbs set into his eye sockets. His was a face which scared thieves and honest men alike, though in truth, only criminals needed fear him for he was polite and deferential towards the proper citizenry. It was the Inspector of the town, Javert of the lead-topped cane and the quicksilver-heavy hand. Though you may expect a policeman to be friendly and honest today, dear reader, you should know that it was a rare thing indeed in those days. And for all that Javert could be terribly stern and did not properly know how to laugh, he strived always to use his tools of the power only on those who had trespassed against the law, and to drag criminals to justice.

Thus, it seemed all the more odd that he kept a reserved distance, bordering on rudeness, from the beloved Ingeniare Madeleine. Naturally, he would do his duty. The punch-card reports were delivered each morning without fail, but Javert went out of his way to not speak to Ingeniare Madeleine and then only about the matters of law. Those who heard him speak of the esteemed Ingeniare – his housekeeper, rarely; more often the soldiers stationed in town who had it as part of their duty to help Javert on their rounds – could report that he considered the man something of an aberration. A fake? Not quite, more an incongruity, as if his past and his present did not match up, and dark secrets lured in the depths of his tool-case.

You must imagine the unique position Madeleine held as a Grand Ingeniare in those days, even if it was only in a small, provincial town. His was the hand that fine-tuned the rules and laws in the local Differential Engine. Though it was of course slaved to the great French Engine, when it came to day-to-day matters, it was his punch-cards that would arrange matters in Montreuil-sous-Mer. With a flick of his finger, Ingeniare Madeleine might change the layout of a street, depose a whole family of workers from their home, or – because he was, as we all know, a charitable, God-fearing man – allot them twice the meal-tickets the Engine thought they should have. More than once, it is said, he made certain that one of the metalloid service-men dropped a few golden coins upon a hungry family's porch.

Many men were tempted to use this power to enrich themselves and take from their rivals, which was why the Steam Emperor's personal service-men rode on their great iron horses through France every day of the year. They rarely came to little Montreuil-sous-Mer, however, and Ingeniare Madeleine had no need of their admonishments. He worked all day in his factory and then did his best in the evening to differentiate the wealth he'd earned throughout the town, keeping little for himself. His house was sparsely furnished and, as mentioned, he would not follow fashion. When it came to his diet, Ingeniare Madeleine was fastidious indeed; for his drink he took only water. At his table the dishes seen most often were a thin soup, and some bread with salt, though he occasionally indulged in sun-warmed plums.

(Nobody, it should be said, had ever seen the Inspector eat anything at all, though a vagrant claimed that he had woken in jail one night and seen him drink some factory oil. It was commonly decided that the vagrant had been drunk – clearly the Inspector survived solely on snuff and spite.)

Such where these two men who both, in their own ways, became the pillars of support that Montreuil-sous-Mer had so long missed. They circled about each other in the town, appearing almost like two metalloid soldiers caught in a battle while their keys ran down – a long, slow and stately progressing towards a clambering collapse.

And we all know when this collapse came, do we not? It was that bitter winter night, when poor Fantine, the Freed Automaton girl previously employed at Maison Madeleine, was arrested by Inspector Javert. He had taken her to the station and was tallying up her crimes – though for an Automaton, even a Fr'aton, the details mattered little. You'd do well do recall, dear reader, that any and each infraction done by her kind was punished with a minimum of two years of forced labour in those days. Knowing this, Fantine pleaded most pitifully for mercy.

There was a little girl, she claimed, a smaller model of her own type who had been too quickly decanted and then abandoned by Monsieur Tholomyes, the same man who had in a moment of light-hearted lassitude gifted Fantine with her own freedom.

"She is but this high," the unfortunate woman pleaded, "Monsieur Inspector, I beg you! I need another three years to pay for her feed before she has the strength to work! Or the innkeepers, oh, those horrible people who have my little Cosette, will own her fully! Please, Monsieur, to be a slave of the state is one thing, but to be in the hand of a petty man –"

"No more words," spoke the Inspector, the cold glow in his eyes not even flickering at this heartfelt plea. "A girl? Where, then? Somewhere far away, I presume? Where she cannot be procured, yes? If there is a girl, so what? So she was decanted early, so she is too small to earn her keep, pfah! A waste of resources to let one of her kind grow up. We are all – men, women, automatons – built to work and keep God's faith. If a man born of woman goes lame, he will still need to find some occupation or he will starve. If an Automaton cannot do its prescribed work, why should it be shown lenience, merely because it is young? The world cannot afford idlers and free-loaders. Silence with you, woman! Bear your punishment with dignity."

That was when the Ingeniare Madeleine entered the scene, roused to a rare temper by the sight of this injustice. The words that fell from him then were harsh and stern; harsh too were the names Fantine called him that night. Because there are enough hard words in this story already, we shall take the liberty of springing over their alteration, gentle reader. We must however take a moment to point out that though the evening ended with reconciliation between Fantine and Ingeniare Madeleine, there was one more man present, to whom no kind words reached. It was the fearsome Inspector who was seen slinking out into the night, cowed like a whipped dog. And like any other beast abused, he grew spiteful and dangerous.

Enough now of that sad evening. Instead, let us swiftly move ahead a few weeks and view a moment observed by far fewer eyes. Though it was written down by a dutiful nurse, it has not fallen into the most common stories by way of rumour – a shame, since it sheds much-needed light on the events that later followed.

The moment we speak of took place at the death-bed of the unfortunate Fantine. Her hard work, and her choice to spend so much of her money on little Cosette had taken its toll. To afford the fees of the innkeepers holding her child, Fantine had skimped on the doses of those vital mineral oils which are sold so dearly that the state never loses its hold on the Fr'aton. If not taken properly for a while, their lack cause a general loss of vitality which can only be repaired through expensive fine-tuning and replacement of the affected parts. If avoided too long, the result is inevitably death. Such was the case for Fantine. The cogs and thermionic valves hidden beneath her soft skin were too corroded to repair, no matter how much gold Ingeniare Madeleine poured into the eager hands of mechanics or how many purified oils they dabbed her with. Now, Fantine awaited only her child for one last farewell, and the kind nurses would give her tincture and sweet hymns to keep the pain at bay.

Ingeniare Madeleine had just returned from his sojourn to the court of Arras. The harrowing journey left him with an unfortunate ticking noise from his right lung-pump, which he would never be free from again. In Paris, he disguised it by wearing an ostentatious pocket-watch – though, do forgive, dear reader, we are now springing too far ahead of the events.

Ingeniare Madeleine had not been able to bring the little Cosette to the side of her mother, but he fell to his knees now and swore to the dying Fantine that he would care for the child. This girl born in a vat, born to drudgery and endless work, he would raise in freedom.

It will surprise none, kind readers, to learn that Fantine died with a blissful smile upon her ravaged face.

He had just closed the woman's eyes, when the gloomy room was lit by that icy blue glow that Ingeniare Madeleine recalled all too well from his subterranean years.

"Javert," he said without turning, "have you come for me?"

"Monsieur Ingeniare..." Never had the words been spoken with more disdain. "I knew you were nothing but an errant mechanin. I hope you have not fallen too much in love with the sun." Javert slammed his cane against the floor, and his eye-lights, usually so cold and steady, sparked with agitation. "Now it is time for proper justice! The house is surrounded and you will be returned to your proper place, never to mislead honest people again. So, make no fuss and come with me... 2460-Jean."

Ingeniare Madeleine shuddered then. For a moment, the shadow of a beast seemed to rest upon his otherwise gentle face. To hear those numbers – how can we ever begin to understand the weight of that appellation? He, who had made himself into a fine gentleman, the respected Grand Ingeniare! That name dragged him back to the pits of Toulon still waiting with hungry jaws in his mind.

We pray you have never seen their like, dear reader, but must also warn: their existence must never be forgotten, painful and embarrassing as the thought is. For almost a century, the pits of Toulon, and the other great bagnes of France, were a foul stain upon our honourable flag.

In truth, until all mines and factories of their kind are closed down and barred forevermore that mark of dishonour remains upon each and every grand human endeavour, for they will all be built upon the suffering of living, intelligent beings.

In Toulon, automatons being punished for the most frivolous things slaved in darkness for years. Connected to feeding tubes through their spines, they were chained to miles upon miles of pipes. They would follow the pipes deeper and deeper into the ground, the foremost teams cracking rock, the second building the pipe as they went, and all the following groups shifting soil and straining the gravel with dirty water on their never-ending hunt for the riches of the Earth. Day and night they would work to bring up the oils, minerals and rare harmonial crystals so necessary for the modern world. Upon their broken backs was the world built, and though the Code forbade any automaton to serve more than five years in that hellish pit, it was regularly stretched so as to further oppress those with no voice.

For nineteen years, Jean of the model number 2460, had slaved beneath the ground. The first five had been for his attempt to steal machine oil to save the young septuplets that had come out of his vat after him; such lineages are the only form of family known to most automatons. The rest of the time had been for attempting to escape – he had faked illness by cutting into and spoiling the liquid going into his feed-tube, he had hidden in the waste-wagon and had once, in that so famous attempt, climbed almost to the top of a mile-deep air vent.

And except for those brief moments of terrified flight, he had spent nineteen years in hell, in the pits of Toulon.

The pits of Toulon, where sunlight's memory soon faded and died. They were lit by the rusty-red light of the eternally glowing mine lamps. In that endless twilight, automatons slaved while their humanity withered away. Much like the flesh on their hands, which curdled and wore off down to their sturdy brass skeleton until their hands looked bloody bones scrabbling restlessly in the filth.

Only once a week did these wretched beings see something else than endless corridors of dirt and oil-bleeding stone. It was when the cold blue light of the jailers' eyes would appear behind their backs. These human men, appearing with the steadiness of clockwork, who freely dared the darkness that even automatons were only sentenced to as punishment. They wore no uniform. Did not need to, for their eyes had been replaced with cold, blue lamps that shone without pity upon the unfortunate creatures under their guard. It was the jailers' task to unhook the teams of Automatons and rotate them between posts, for not even a man with brass skeleton could stand to break rocks day and night for longer than a week.

Such was the memory that awoke in the mind of Ingeniare Madeleine whenever he saw Javert's unwholesome gaze. Can he be blamed for freezing in terror for a moment?

"Come on then! Turn around, and raise your hands where I can see them," Javert said, and his cane tapped a familiar beat against the floor: the rhythm of the labour gang, the heartbeat of hell. "It is good to have things go back to their proper patterns again. Good Lord, when I think of it – one like you playing Grand Ingeniare!" He shook hid head and walked closer, hefting the cane like a club. "No more blubbering for that mechanina, now, lying here in state like a real woman! I suppose I ought to have her moved to the scrap-room, before she goes completely foul."

"Have you no – You possess mechanical enchantments too! The full humans look at you and fear you," Madeleine whispered, managing to overcome his fear enough that he could turn and keep an eye on Javert's cane... But to gaze into those blue eyes and know the light of judgement again, he managed not. "What wrong did Fantine do, beyond being constructed, instead of from a woman born?"

"She broke the law, as did you," was the cool reply. "What mercy has she earned, merely because she is a construction?"

Madeleine shuddered again as the light moved over him, for he knew that he was once more casting that shadow he had so strived to flee from; the accursed shadow of an illegal automaton, dooming him to flee forever or live in torment. "And what about the little girl? Have you no mercy in you at all, Inspector Javert? Have you replaced even your heart with cogs and gears? Please – three days is all I need!"

Javert barked out a laugh and finally laid his heavy hand on Madeleine's neck, just above the spot where a feeding tube had been inserted. When he felt the shudder pass through his captive, he nodded in grim satisfaction.

"Such a sad story you tell the hard-hearted inspector... You think you know me, 2460-Jean? You think you are so pitiful – born a tree-pruner, even allowed to keep one sister around? Oh yes, I know your story. I researched it carefully when I became suspicious of this never-sleeping, rarely-eating Ingeniare, whose origins nobody knew and who never seemed to tire nor age." Javert bent closer, and he whispered the following words into Madeleine's ear. "Let me tell you, then... I was made in a factory too; I come from the vats, just like you."

Though his skin whitened in the harsh grip, Madeleine turned his face fully while his mouth fell open in astonishment at the revelation. "You?" he asked. "But you were a guard!"

"Yes. My factory was attached to a prison-mine in the South, and my siblings were used for spares."

"That is illegal," Madeleine whispered. His gaze flickered over the tall form, not even trying to hide that he was searching for the tell-tale skin-seams and tube-ports on Javert.

"How fine that you know the law; a pity you cannot follow it," Javert said, enduring the visual investigation with the contempt born of long familiarity.

The Inspector shook his head, the mocking twist of his lips turning cruel and frightful in the queer light of his eyes. It became clear to Madeleine how he, and all other citizens of Montreuil-sous-Mer had failed to notice the tells of an automaton upon the Inspector. Marked a jailer and a servant of the law in eyes, in stature, in voice and quicksilver-heavy hand... Who would think to look for a man, constructed or not, beneath all that? As Madeleine had hid Jean beneath the gentleman Ingeniare, so Javert had sunk beneath the Inspector, until they both half forgot their masks.

"My Maker was discovered before he could process me. Though," and he bared his teeth, a frightful parody of a grin, "his punishment fit the crime. He ended his days in an organ-mill, and my raising mechanina was sent to jail for not reporting him earlier. I was given my freedom and I knew then, that there are only two paths for our kind: to serve the law, or be ground to slag beneath it. I made my choice, as you have made yours."

"We can become more than mechanins!"

"Hmpf! You were always a foolish one, 2460-Jean. We were made to work and serve! No matter how many fine clothes or affected hair-pieces we adopt –" and Javert lifted a corner of his own excellently made wig, revealing the brass dome of his skull, "–we are never more than machines. I cannot be a human. Neither can you. Well then, I shall be an automaton to the best of my ability and follow the law, which gives me what freedoms I enjoy. Outside of the law, what are we but monsters?"

"No," Madeleine protested, shaking his head so that his beard fluttered loose, revealing that it too was only falsehood and deceit. "I am a i_man_/i, Javert, whether there is bone or brass hidden beneath my flesh. Fantine, too, she lived – she loved! Now she has passed, leaving behind a little child. How would that change if that child came from her womb? We are human too. We love and suffer, just as they, and we all yearn for freedom from this slavery they hold us in!"

"Speak for yourself," Javert said, a sneer on his face. "I am satisfied in my position as a policeman. I have earned it through hard work and correct behaviour – until your charade almost robbed me of it all!"

At that, Madeleine nodded swiftly, "Yes, I grant you that. I knew it was not right to continue to deceive you when you spoke of quitting your post. You must understand, if I had revealed myself, if I'd allowed you to chain me and take me to Arras..." He reached out a hand to the body of Fantine, finally peaceful again in death. "For her child I had to deceive. I will follow you, Javert, but first, three days. Please."

"What kind of fool do you take me for? You have gone to so much trouble for that mechanina, and in the end, it will change nothing. You are returning to the dark," Javert said, giving Madeleine a shake, "and if I know how the great Engines work, they will not allow you to be released ever again."

With his free hand, he unhooked the blue-steel handcuffs from his belt – the heavy ones they had used in Toulon, made to hold even a rock-breaker and mine-worker – and snapped one ring shut around Madeleine's left hand before roughly pushing him around so that they faced each other. When he reached for the other wrist, Madeleine seemed to stagger against him and Javert suddenly felt a finger rest against his cheek.

"Wha –"

Passerbys on the street reported that they had seen an eerie white light stream out from the hospital windows that evening, as if someone had dared implement Rousseau's globular lightning experiment indoors. The sharp smell of ozone drowned out even the stench of illness in the room and smoke rose from between the two automatons, neither of whom could be mistaken for a proper men right now. As the halo of crackling light faded from around them, Inspector Javert slowly collapsed, with the stately stagger of an ancient tree, and smoke rose from his collar. He fell limp against Ingeniare Madeleine, the light of his eyes completely extinguished for the first time in years.

With surprisingly gentle movements, Madeleine caught him and felt for his pulse. Though the Inspector's breath seemed to stutter for a moment, his heart was a sturdy one, and soon he was breathing easily again. Only then did Madeleine begin to search through his voluminous pockets. He found the key and unlocked the manacle around his wrist, frowning as he saw the revealing gleam of brass and silver peeking through the heavy burns on his palm.

Here, at least, was one secret Inspector Javert had not uncovered. Nobody had seen Bishop Bienvenue's precious silver capacitor since one 2460-Jean passed through the town of Digne, yet nevertheless, many citizens of Montreuil-sous-Mer had felt the pressure of those plates in his firm grip when their Ingeniare congratulated them for a day's good work.

The current, Madeleine had learned early on, could kill a horse. To all luck, it was only enough to stun a well-built automaton.

"I am sorry, Javert," Madeleine – no, we shall name him Jean once again, though we too shall refuse the number he had been prescribed – said, as he laid the unconscious Inspector on the bed. He then cuffed him to a post and put the key on the side-table where it was easily seen but not reached. "I doubt you would hear me out if you were awake..." Jean made sure to arrange Javert's hair properly again, taking note of the tiny, clever hooks that ensured that it never slipped, even when fighting a rowdy prisoner. "I hope that you too learn to see the chains that bind you, one day and I pray that you may escape them before your death." He made the gesture of the cross over the slack face and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

And that, dear reader, is why we have told you this little episode which is so often left out of the tale of Hundred-Faced Jean. For however we might consider a man who spits on his roots and willingly serves those who hold him in bondage, Jean had recognized in the Inspector a brother in misery.

Remember, my friends: Not all fetters are visible to the naked eye and sometimes the ones we wrap around our hearts are the ones that are the hardest to break.

/The End


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